Moste Perilous Potion Master Tales
by Nearly headless Natalie
Summary: The Chronicles of Severus Snape, the young Hogwarts Potion Master. Add snark and black robes with a helping of amusing disasters. Stir well.
1. A Bad First Impression Part One

((First off--Disclaimer. No, I don't own Harry Potter. JKR and the movie makers own all. I'm just having a bit of fun.

Secondly, this is not a long fanfiction. I retired from that a couple years ago from that. This is a series of one or two shots about Severus Snape, a young Potion Master working Hogwarts. This is pre-Harry Potter schooling and post-Voldemort (the first time). These stories are meant to be funny and will not benefit humanity in anyway. However, Severus Snape is a tenacious character and my funny ideas may go in very unfunny ways, so be prepared. Also, this story is rated K+ for mild language.

Thirdly, about the stories themselves. I struggle to be as canon compliant as can be. However, I have referenced the Harry Potter Lexicon for some additional information as well as dates. Everything else, as we do not really know very much about Snape or any other professors for that matter, I will invent as I go along.

Fourth, about the dates. According to the Harry Potter Lexicon, Snape was hired in September 1981, a few months before James and Lily Potter met their untimely deaths. I found this inconvenient to my story, so Snape in this story is starting in September 1982, a year later. Imagine him spending that year anyway you want (mourning Lily's death, suffering from the Ministry inquisition into this activities, ect). Just so we have that clear.

Fifth and final. These are stories about Severus Snape. A canon-compliant Snape. Therefore an unattractive, nasty, snarky, and unfriendly Snape. I do honestly believe that deep, deep, _deep_ 

down Snape is a decent human being and will do the right thing. He simply will insult and offend everyone in his path, give as many unwarranted detentions as he can, and be as horrible as possible while doing said right thing. So expect a human Snape here, but not a pleasant one. Also, there will be no Lily-worship here. If you are interested in that, please read another fanfiction. Really.

All right! Now that's all done...let the stories begin!))

A Bad First Impression

By Nearly headless Natalie

The mirror blinked, once, twice. It squinted. It crossed its metaphorical eyes. No luck. With a magical headshake, it manufactured its best optimistic tone.

"I think you are looking….looking your _best_, my dear," it cheerfully said, its voice twisting upward to a hopeful squeak.

The man in front of the mirror raised a single eyebrow. It was far more articulate than his stony facial expression, than the early frown lines establishing permanent residences in the corners of his grim mouth.

"Indeed," he replied, in a low, silky voice, the dangerous sound of a panther circling his prey.

The mirror was getting desperate. Mirrors cannot lie—the strong magic of the castle, swirling unobtrusively but never quiescently in every single stone prevented it. That didn't mean the mirror wanted to tell the man the whole truth. "Well—that is to say—you have very…_striking_ features."

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "Ah. I understand now." The mirror, had it been real, would have breathed in relief. "Likely to want to make the staff _want_ to strike me or to strike fear in the hearts of the unworthy?"

The mirror sputtered. If sentient beings such as mirrors could be uncomfortable, this one would want to sink into the gray stones and disappear forever. Why couldn't he be like other humans and just accept and forget compliments? "Which do you prefer?"

The man dusted an imaginary piece of lint off the shoulder of his black robes. His black hair and eyes with his pale skin completed this human study of contrast. "Would it be too much to ask for both?"

He turned suddenly, his long robes flowing behind him impressively, like a careless waterfall of black wool. The effect was rather ruined when the corner of the robe caught on the edge of the door and took the tall, dark man down to the ground a moment later.

It was impossible to resist. The mirror snorted loudly. The man picked himself up off the floor with a flourish, the effect rather ruined by his reddening ears that his long, greasy hair could not completely hide. A moment later a soundless shot of blue light flew across the room, causing the mirror to squeak in indignation.

The young man brushed non-existent dust from his new black robes, again, and then impatiently pushed back his long black hair from his face, exposing his still pink cheeks. "There," he spat, "Comment about _that_, bloody mirror."

The mirror did so. In fluent Burmese.

It stuttered itself into silence, much to the pleasure of the black-clad man, who took pleasure in the torment of another, albeit a mere mirror, to escape feeling nervous himself. His smirk vanished, replaced by a preoccupied frown. Because young Severus Snape—although he would rather drink a phial of Armadillo Bile than admit it—was very nervous, indeed.

A year previously, he had been the servant of the Dark Lord, now apparently deceased or…something. Even Snape's convoluted and creative imagination could not—no, dare not, he thought, brushing his hand against his Dark Mark—think of what could have happened that night.

And a year later, he was now a teacher at Hogwarts, about to start his first day as one of the youngest professors in the school's history. Ah, correction. The youngest teacher in Hogwarts history that just happened to have some unsavory ties to Death Eaters and was recently, if quietly, pardoned by the Ministry of Magic for crimes against wizardom.

Needless to say, his co-workers were not thrilled. Minerva McGonagall gave him her best stink eye every time he walked in the room or asked for the butter at the Head Table. Pomona Sprout tutted quietly when he turned his back and seemed to stop breathing any time he approached her, as though she were attempting to hide her plump frame in mid air from his clearly nefarious purposes. Filius Flitwick squeaked every time he entered the room. This would not be so unusual, considering Flitwick's normal communication consisted of squeaks. It was Flitwick's tumble off the chair accompanying the squeak that always irked Snape to no end.

Only Dumbledore, with his damned calm blue eyes, never thought of him as dangerous. Snape smiled grimly. Dumbledore had seen to Snape's…_rehabilitation_ to decent society as well as the protection of his students. Thus, Severus Snape, Dark Arts genius, was sent off into the dungeons to teach the fine art of Potions.

He snorted. Secretly, he thought reporting to the Dark Lord was less intimidating than a herd of…_children_. Well—not just the children. The little pests could always be put into their places with a detention or so (or a dozen, if it's a Gryffindor brat). No, cauldron-bearing, ingredient-mixing, Dunderheaded students would be enough to drive fear in the hearts of even the most hardened former-criminals. Snape shuddered magnificently. Horace Slughorn, the now retired Potion's Master, reminded Snape to keep control of his students. He showed him the black scorch marks in the wall where Horace's predecessor had once stood trying to keep order.

So was it too much to ask that he make a good first impression? Right—tonight the children would be arriving. He would do his best today to gain his co-worker's respect—not friendship, of course, he hastily reminded himself, as if he would be interested in _friendship_—to face the snot-nosed brats as one of a unified front. He cracked his neck nervously, taking a few deep breaths. Control and calm was the key. Because once the staff was relaxed, the Slytherin reminded himself, they were so much easier to manipulate.

With a stern nod at nothing in particular Snape turned once more and left his dungeon suite. If the mirror noticed that Snape carefully ensured that his cloak did not impede his grand exit, it did not remark, in English or Burmese.

A moment later he entered into the Great Hall through the staff door behind the table. He took a seat next to Flitwick. He silently repeated his prepared greeting to the little man. He had practiced it in his rooms last night. Clear, direct, neither too cheerful nor too dour. Pulling his shoulder's back, he pulled his chair back and sat down.  
"Good morning, Filius," Snape greeted.

Flitwick immediately inhaled his bacon and began to choke. Then he started coughing. Loudly coughing. The whole table turned to stare. Snape struggled with the urge to slump in his chair and hide.

McGonagall rigorously patted Flitwick on the back, while glaring at Snape. Sprout tutted, while nibbling at her eggs with annoying neatness. Rolanda Hooch, the flying instructor, smirked and leaned over to whisper something to Quirrell, the Muggle Studies teacher.

Snape sighed and turned to his plate. So much for relaxing his colleagues.

"Ah, Severus," Dumbledore said, over his toast, smothered in a disgustingly sweet combination of marmalade and Nutella, "You've arrived just in time. I was just asking if someone would look over your lesson plans today. Just to see that you have the general idea, of course. Would anyone like to volunteer just a little time?"

There was an uncomfortable pause. Snape gave a curt nod to Dumbledore and waited in agony. McGonagall started carrying on a suspiciously loud conversation with Flitwick and appeared momentarily deaf to the Headmaster. Pomona was stammering something about the greenhouse and preparing to flee. The silence from everyone else was as thick as house-elf made pudding. Suddenly, a dry, tired voice, like the brush of deadened leaves against rough pavement, whispered down the table. "I'll take a look at young Snape's lesson plans."

At end of the table, Cuthbert Binns, professor of History of Magic, sat in stooped dignity. The withered, thin old man watched Snape with cool, emotionless eyes behind a pair of stern spectacles. To his consternation, Snape could not determine whether the man was pleased or annoyed with his task.

"Thank you, Cuthbert," Dumbledore replied, "And I believe Severus will find you in your office after breakfast? Very good, very good. But are you all right, Cuthbert? Are you still unwell?"

Binns had shakily risen to his feet. "Yes, yes, I'm fine, Dumbledore," he brusquely said, "A man pushing 126-years-old can have some trouble getting up. We all can't be as sprightly as you were." Snape was delighted to hear Binns mutter something about "stupid old codger" and "ridiculous robes" as he walked slowly to the door. Dumbledore, the image of ignorance, brushed crumbs off his vibrant purple and periwinkle trimmed robes. Snape thought he looked like a rejected Easter Egg.

After eating in silence, Snape slunk away from the Head Table, trying to ignore the hiss of whispering that erupted before the door had closed behind him. He supposed it could be worse—they could be laughing. It was a testament to Snape's attempt to be a polite castle employee that he only hexed two suits of armor to pieces on his way back to the dungeon.

A few moments later, he was knocking on Binn's office door, lesson plans in hand. No answer. Muttering about the deaf old men he would be working with, Snape hammered on the door. The door clicked open. Confidently, Snape strode in—to see Binns's head slumped onto his chest, his white brittle hair spread around his face like a dried-out, overused mop.

Snape snorted. Sleeping right after breakfast! Was this a school or a retirement community? Between Dumbledore and Binns it was difficult to tell.

"A late night, was it?" Snape asked with a sneer, not caring if he woke Binns. But the man in the chair did not move.

Snape, whose patience on a good day was as long lasting as a Chudley Cannons winning streak, started to shake the man's shoulder roughly, friendly colleague relationship be damned! "Wake up, man!"

Binn's limp body fell forward and landed on the desk with a soft, boneless thud.

Snape looked at the dead man with a blank expression while he assessed the situation.

A young professor had found a colleague dead in his office.

No, correction—a young, scarcely cleared former Death Eater with a talent for potions found a man inexplicably dead in his office without any witnesses to confirm it.

He looked back at the dead man, back to his lesson plans, and then back at the dead man.

"Bloody hell," he simply said, "Bloody, bloody _hell_."

It summed up the situation nicely.

((Stay tuned for the rest of this story...let the mayhem ensue! Also, a note: Nutella, to those who are unfamiliar with it (aka, American, usually) Nutella is a chocolate/hazelnut spread, much like the texture of creamy peanut butter. It's fantastic and wonderfully sweet, which makes me think, of course of Dumbledore's infamous sweet tooth.))


	2. A Bad First Impression Part Two

((Hey those who have read before and those who have not--here's the next installment. By the way, thanks, Emestrella, for the typo heads up--I've corrected it.))

A Bad First Impression Part Two

A moment later, Snape was feverishly pacing the dead man's office, scowling at the floor intensely. He wasn't uncomfortable looking at Binn's dead body, of course. While repentant, Snape _had_ been a Death Eater—and a good one. And dead bodies weren't so much occupational hazards as much as job requirements for a position among the Dark Lord's best.

In any case, after a few turns in front of Binns' empty fire grate, Snape stopped and cursed. His options were limited. By the appearance of the jar on Binn's fireplace mantle, the Floo jar had held a colony of industrious spiders more recently than Floo powder. He couldn't disillusion Binns' body—the castle prevented the Disillusion Charm, to stop precocious students from sneaking out invisibly from their towers.

But the body _had_ to move. Binns had died a peaceful death—that much was certain. There was no evidence of foul play, and Dumbledore would have been standing in the doorway by now if Binns had been on the receiving end of the Killing Curse. But if it was discovered that _he_, Severus Snape, had found the body…it could be enough to incriminate him, if not in the minds of the law, in the minds of his co-workers and students. And before the year was out he would be an ex-Death Eater out of luck and out of work until the Dark Lord decided to come back to life and restart his plans for hostile take-over.

Snape snorted. Right. As if that were likely to happen again.

Telling the truth, of course, never crossed his mind. If it had, he would have dismissed it as Gryffindor nonsense. After all, the last person who believes a Slytherin is telling the truth is also Slytherin.

Suddenly, Snape halted on the floor, eyeing Binns' withered body. Of course—he could move the body to the staff room. Binns spent all his time out of the classroom there, reading thick history tomes that could potentially be older than Binns or even Dumbledore. Binns could have easily walked to the staff room for a moment after breakfast in the Great Hall and—yes, that would work nicely.

All he had to do, Snape grimly thought, was move the body up two flights of stairs in broad daylight in a busy castle.

Not possible, his logic insisted.

It could be fun to try, his Slytherin side murmured.

A moment later, Snape's overlarge nose peered out of the barely open office door, followed by his grim, determined face. His black eyes darted from the end of the silent hallway and back again. With a brisk nod at nothing in particular, Snape allowed Binns' body to follow him out into the hallway, levitated by a silent spell. They made an odd pair—Snape was brimming with the dark, dangerous energy of Slytherin purpose. Binns followed limply, as white and withered as Snape was black and powerful, like Snape's pale, ancient shadow.

A moment later, Binns' body slammed against Snape's back, as the young man stopped so suddenly his dragon skin boots squeaked on the floor. He saw Minerva McGonagall coming down the stairs. Quickly, Snape whirled around and pulled Binns' body into a nearby room and shut the door. The room was pitch dark and crowded, but Snape didn't dare light his wand, as he heard McGonagall's footsteps pause. Snape was listening so intently to McGonagall's approach that he nearly yelped in a most embarrassingly (and dangerously) loud way when he felt something warm and hairy settle on his shoulder.

He turned his head slowly to meet a pair of glowing eyes and an all-too familiar meow. It belonged to an ugly scruffy cat named Mrs. Norris, Argus Filch's latest pet-cum-charity case. Filch found the creature at the edge of the forest, starving to death and frightened, he said. Snape and the rest of the staff soon thought that Mrs. Norris could have provided quite nicely for herself. By the end of her first week in the castle, she managed to send six house elves trying to pet her to the infirmary. When Aurora Sinistra, the Astronomy professor, called Mrs. Norris' coat "mangy," she discovered her bed curtains ripped to shreds without her wards even being so much as disturbed.

Mrs. Norris purred loudly most of the day.

No one mentioned Mrs. Norris's unfortunate fur ever again.

Suddenly, with a moment of horror, Snape felt his nose itch. He had been slightly allergic to cats his whole life. This was compounded by an unfortunately strong sense of smell. His breath hitched dangerously as Mrs. Norris drug her long tail across his mouth and nose with the careful pace of a painter applying the last brushstrokes on his masterpiece. And McGonagall was still standing outside the door.

Just as Mrs. Norris began to bat Snape's hair with her uncut claws, McGonagall turned down the hallway, her footsteps following her. A moment later, Snape began to sneeze, then swear and sneeze, as Mrs. Norris dug her claws in his shoulder before hopping on the floor. Snape's eyes had adjusted well enough that he spotted the proud flick of her tail as she pranced away into the dark. "Damned cat," he muttered, massaging his shoulder while wiping his nose with a handkerchief (black, of course), "She did that on purpose."

Demented cat or not, Snape still had to bring Binns' dead body up two flights of stairs and into the staff room. Ferociously cursing all cats (especially Gryffindor lions) to the deepest rings of hell, Snape pulled Binns through the air and up the stairs.

For a moment, Snape was in luck. He managed to find a staircase that would take him to the next floor without seeing anyone. As he was up the next staircase, however, the stairs decided to move. In the middle of the stairwell, Snape waited impatiently for the slow moving staircase to realign itself with the next floor—only to feel the stairs stop completely. The stairs had turned a perfect halfway but would not move any more, leaving Snape and the body completely stranded in the middle of a great empty tower. Just as Snape started to sit down to wait for the staircase to make up its mind, he heard voices coming toward him. From the squeak and the low rumble, Snape realized that Rubeus Hagrid and Flitwick were coming down the staircase directly across from his stationary one. With a strangled sound of frustration, Snape looked at Binns' body. "My apologies," he said. A moment later, directed by a swift, silent spell, the body of the late History of Magic professor flew to the next floor landing. For a mad moment, Snape nearly laughed, thinking that that was probably the most exercise the ancient, bookish Binns had gotten in several decades.

Just in time, too. Flitwick and Hagrid saw Snape stranded on the steps and stopped to look at each other. "All righ' there, Professor?" Hagrid asked, hesitantly. His voice boomed in the cavernous room. Snape saw out of the corner of his eye that Binns' foot was still dangling off the ledge. He felt a drop of sweat make its way down his high collar.

"Never better, Hagrid," Snape replied, his lip twisting upward, "I am enjoying the peace and quiet here, without any…_unpleasant_ company."

Flitwick bristled, just as Snape expected him to do. The little man may have been utterly ridiculous, but foolish and humble he was not. Hagrid only stared at Snape blankly, his large half-giant mind still allowing the insult to ramble about aimlessly in the too large space. Snape wondered if the lumbering idiot would process it by dinnertime. He doubted it.

"Come, Hagrid," Flitwick squeakily said, space from Snape giving him confidence, "Leave Severus to the pleasant company of _himself_."

A moment after Flitwick and Hagrid left, the staircase, of course, revolved around fully. Snape, however, only patted the staircase absentmindedly on his way with Binns, paying homage to the building. After all, the Slytherin knew that the castle was only a castle, but it was a castle that knew its own mind. An ally made of stone and magic was better than most of flesh and bone.

Finally, after a quick glance down the hallway, Snape darted to the staffroom, nearly gasping with relief. He tore open the door, yanked Binns in behind him and slammed it shut. He turned—

And saw about forty pairs of bright, large eyes staring back at him.

On every table, every chair, every shelf sat an alert house elf, who stared at him with a dawning look of horror. Snape opened his mouth to say something, anything—

"Oo, we is bad house elves," one squealed, with teary eyes, "Bad, bad house elves!"

One took a poker and started beating itself with it. Another tried to give itself a paper cut with a spare piece of parchment. Some took turns punching one another and pulling on their ears. In the tumult, Snape tried to piece together what had happened and why they were punishing themselves for Binns' untimely demise. Finally, taking what would become his most dangerous teaching voice out from the confines of his throat, he asked, "What is the meaning of this? You, there, what is your name?"

A tiny elf wearing what looked like an old curtain and tattered gold curtain cord like a toga stepped timidly in front of him. "Yinka, Professor Snape, sir."

"Why are you punishing yourselves?" he asked gruffly. He wondered that not a one of them even seemed to note Binns' body.

"We's should not be in Professors' room," Yinka replied, "We's being in Professor Snape's way. We's punishing ourselves for being bad house elves for Headmaster Dumbledore."

Severus Snape, it is important to note, didn't hate house elves. Thought they were obnoxious, yes. But Snape hated and disliked so many people that he simply didn't have time to hate house elves as well.

But he was a Slytherin.

And any Slytherin uses blackmail when so obviously offered to him.

"Well," he said, after a moment, looking away from their eyes, all too innocent and respectful, "Well—if you all leave now…I will not tell Headmaster Dumbledore. And you will not be reprimanded further."

A moment later, a herd of happy house elves clamored around him, squeaking their delight. Snape had to move quickly, as Yinka appeared to be attempting to polish or kiss his shoe or perhaps both at the same time. He evaded a few more hugs and some overly friendly fondling before shouting out, "Now leave this instant!"

The onslaught of the cracks made Snape blink with surprise. But not a house elf remained, leaving him alone, at last, in the staff room with the dead body.

A few minutes later, Snape was calmly walking to the Great Hall for lunch, his face as inscrutable as a centaur's lunar prediction. When Dumbledore asked McGonagall if she had seen Binns, Snape's fork never so much as quivered in the air. And he even walked slowly out of the Great Hall, with his usual flourish—until breaking out into an undignified jog the moment he turned the corner to the last staircase to the dungeons, to hole himself up in until dinner.

After an afternoon of endless activity (which consisted of pacing, stopping and cursing, and pacing some more) Snape walked to dinner with a deepening sense of desperation, turning each corner tightly, like a rat in a maze.

They already knew, he wildly thought. Or thought they knew. Dumbledore had been watching him move the body. The house elves had gone to Dumbledore. Perhaps Mrs. Norris even managed to convey the sum of it to Filch—Merlin knows the man spent enough time with the animal to perfect man/cat communication. Surely they would not let him in the Great Hall with the children—perhaps the Ministry officials would be waiting for him as he turned the corner…right…here—

When Snape crashed into Pomona Sprout, an observer would be hard gone to say which of the two looked more terrified.

Summoning up reserves of polite behavior Snape never realized he knew about let alone practiced, he helped the stammering plump woman to her feet before murmuring an apology and stalking away, intent on facing his (for once) undeserved punishment. If he had stayed but a moment longer he would have seen Sprout's face change from frightened confusion to surprised interest.

Snape breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped into the Hall. No ministry officials, no angry headmasters, and no dead bodies. Perhaps no one had found Binns yet. Still, not trying to push his luck, Snape took a seat farthest from the Headmaster, next to Aurora Sinistra. With a carefully neutral expression, he watched as the seats filled up with students, not so much younger than himself, and McGonagall lead in the herd of anxious first years (who, in truth, were still not nearly as nervous as their new Potion Master). He applauded mechanically for the Slytherins (who all looked with interest at their new, young Head of House) but spent most of the sorting feeling conspicuously visible to Dumbledore, who continued whispering to his colleagues. As the whispering became even more pronounced, Snape began to grip the table so hard that he gave himself a splinter.

Just as Dumbledore sat down after his announcements, Sinistra turned to speak to him. "Can you find any windows in the dungeon, Severus? There's supposed to be a wonderful view of Mars tonight."

Ordinarily Snape would have answered with a curt "no" adding on a more loquacious day that he had no interest in viewing a large chunk of rotating rock in the night sky. But he saw Dumbledore, out of the corner of his eye, turning his direction…he needed a distraction. And quickly.

"No, I'm afraid not," he answered Sinistra, looking desperately at her face and not at the old man's behind her, "But what makes Mars so breath-taking this evening, Professor?"

Snape spent most of his meal in a deep one-way conversation with Sinistra, who gushed over Snape's interest with Mars while Snape nodded and grunted when appropriate. When Sinistra finally stopped to ingest, and Dumbledore looked painfully close to looking his way again, Snape sought out Hooch to his left to tell him about her days on the Stockholm Streakers Quidditch team ("Let me tell you," she said with alarming enthusiasm, after drinking perhaps a glass too much of spiced mead, "That name's not just from the speed of our brooms!"). Indeed, Snape was so busy avoiding Dumbledore's notice and pretending to listen to Sinistra and Hooch that he quite missed staff on the other side of the table nodding toward him approvingly, as Sprout gushed a rather elaborated story about a never-before seen polite—no, even _gallant_ young professor. By the end of the evening, while Flitwick added that Snape had a most unpleasant sense of humor, the professors had accepted Snape as One of Them without the young professor nary the wiser.

By the time he had stepped into the dungeons, Snape had had enough of this never-ending first day. He climbed into bed without even taking off his robes and slept deeply, not bothering to set an alarm. Thus it was a flushed, barely de-wrinkled Snape that dashed up the stairs the next morning, having slept through breakfast, to find out his class schedule. When he turned the corner he saw a clump of teachers staring into a classroom, murmuring quietly.

"What is the mat—" he stopped dead when he saw the teacher in the classroom.

Cuthbert Binns was floating by his desk, reading his ancient history notes to a classroom full of murmuring third years. One brave Gryffindor girl threw a book that went through Binns' now transparent stomach.

Dumbledore was clearing his throat. "Excuse me—Cuthbert, may I interrupt?"

The ghost looked up in surprise. "Yes, Headmaster, what is the matter?"

Dumbledore hesitated slightly. "Do you feel…yourself this morning, Cuthbert?"

The ghost pondered this. "To be honest, I do keep feeling an odd draft."

"That would be because you're a ghost, Cuthbert."

The history professor looked down in some surprise. The class and the teachers waited with baited breath to hear him scream and cry when he understood—

"Ah. So I am. But for heaven's sake, that's no need to interrupt a class, Headmaster. There is a Goblin War to be discussed."

Dumbledore didn't so much as blink. "So there is. Yes, so there is. Do you know where you left your…body, Cuthbert?"

Snape had stopped breathing. His career was over before it truly began. He wondered briefly where he was to find other work before his pragmatic mind reminded him he would be in with the permanently unemployed in Azkaban.

The ghost shrugged. "I'm not sure. Likely the staff room, that's where I usually sit in the morning. Perhaps I took a longer nap than expected." He gave a small, dry gasp which may have been a third cousin to a chuckle. Suddenly the bell rang and the class fled, the third year Gryffindor not even stopping to pick up her book. "Read the second chapter by tomorrow," Binns reminded them. "Is there is anything else, Headmaster?"

With a soft demur, Dumbledore led the flock of professors down the hallway, leaving only Snape frozen to the floor, staring at Binns.

"Young Snape," Binns said, "Is there anything I can help you with?"

He shook his head wordlessly. If he opened his mouth his relief would explode into something high and desperate, and the third years behind him would never let him forget it while he remained a professor.

Binns' eyes suddenly narrowed. "Behave yourself, boy. No more dead bodies, eh?"

Again, he shook his head unsure why Binns had not told Dumbledore about the body move but thankful beyond words. He realized dimly that he probably looked more pathetic than the terrified first years.

"Good luck then," he muttered, "You'll need it in this castle of loonies." He turned looking at his notes with interest. "And—one more thing, Snape."

The young professor looked up earnestly at the ghost, his sarcasm and jaded attitude lost in surging midst of relief.

"Clean yourself up before class. You look like hell." Without any more ado, the ghost stepped through the classroom into the castle.

And Snape went to the bathroom and prepared himself for class.

A pleasant exhaustion had set in by the night. The children hadn't blown him up. His coworkers were suddenly respectful and friendly. And he was not going to Azkaban. He had to repeat that one a few times, still in disbelief how everything had happened.

Rising from his chair in the corner of his room, he walked to the mirror, just to check. Narrow face, thin lips, large nose, black hair. Yes, he was still Severus Snape and everything, for once in his life, had worked out in his favor.

"Perhaps," he mused, "I have for once done something right."

The mirror attempted to answer him. In Burmese.

Snape smirked. No, he certainly had not done something _right_. But he must have done something _well_. And Severus Snape spent the rest of the evening plotting away, working to make his first impression last for a lifetime.

((This first story is done...obviously if you have any suggestions about rather dreadful situations for Snape to get stuck in, let me know...I have a few ideas, though. I'll give you a hint. Two words: Valentine's Day.))


	3. Valentine's Day Part One

((Hey everyone! Sorry for the delay in posting...I've had a crazy month, and this story actually needed some research. You'll understand when the story is done.

To those who reviewed: Thank you! I believe I have replied to you individually, but thanks for your support.

**Warning! This fanfiction has a surprise ending. Do not scroll to the bottom of the post if you do not want to have the surprise ruined. The author is no liable for any disappointment that the readers might feel.** All right, the last bit is a joke, but I mean it, really. Don't scroll to the bottom if you want to be surprised.

Also, a note--I am not a poet. I really, really don't write poetry well. So please don't flame the poem in the story, because it is supposed to be as bad as it is. Thank you.

Also, disclaimer...yes, I still am not JKR. Yes, I still happen to bitterly resent that. Okay, not really. But maybe just a little.

On with the story!))

Valentine's Day

A tornado of black robes burst into the dungeon office, throwing the door open with cataclysmic force. Then, just as hastily, the door was slammed shut, locking with a series of clicks that could rival the high-security vaults at Gringott's. Next, the fireplace wards were checked—there would be no Flooing into this office tonight. A flick of the wand showed that the formidable wards around the office were still in place, promising any trespasser foolish enough to attempt to break them a one-way ticket into the thorniest patch of bushes in the Forbidden Forest. Finally, reflecting on the office owners partially Muggle upbringing, a chair was lodged underneath the door handle. Just for good measure.

Severus Snape observed these security measures grimly. True, he had been accused of being slightly…paranoid before. (Slamming an unsuspecting and gibbering Flitwick against the wall a few months ago for tapping what was a questioning finger but what felt like a wand tip into his back with a very unique and unpleasant spell came to mind. But Snape quickly dismissed that. He was alarmed—it was a perfectly natural reaction. And changing the password to his rooms and his office twice a week was simply…very _zealous_ caution). But there was no precaution too great for the monstrosity that awaited Snape's return.

_It_ had arrived that morning at the Head Table, amongst a perfumed notice from Malfoy Manor (Snape always found it utterly appalling that Lucius and not Narcissa always insisted on sending Charm-scented parchment…how could a man with a penchant for flowery-scented letters really call himself a _Death Eater_?) for Narcissa's annual Spring Ball in March and his order from Flourish and Blott's (Finally Getting To Be A Fungi: Quick Potion Recipes for the Busy Brewer). Thank Merlin _It_ was caught in between the book and the letter. If _It _would have fallen to the table, in front of the entire student body as well as his coworkers…his carefully made reputation as the castle's most formidable and intimidating professor would have been shattered.

He pulled his shoulders back, tightening his lips dangerously. His students would have recognized that look in an instant. He always shifted subtly to this expression right before swooping in for the kill, just as the student is about to make a large (or miniscule, in the case of…every student _not_ Slytherin) mistake. Instead of a student, however, Snape focused his dangerous stare at a single piece of paper lying on his desk.

He circled once and twice around the desk, his mouth pinching into a severe scowl. Finally he placed his long hands on the desk in front of him and, for the first time since he had literally thrown the offensive article on his desk before class, looked at _It_.

His face twisted in disgust. He couldn't help it.

It was just so very…_pink_.

Snape's security precautions were perhaps as logical as their creator supposed they were. After all, if a student (or teacher, for that matter) had walked into the office, most intimidating professor in the history of Hogwarts or not, the sight of Severus Snape bent over his large, dark desk in the depths of the dungeons, surrounded by a host of jarred slimy dead creatures, staring at a hot pink parchment heart as though it were a cauldron ready to blow…who could not laugh?

Apparently anyone but the man in question. His large nose was wrinkled slightly, as though he were afraid to breathe in the very air surrounding the heart, perhaps dreading a pink infection onto his dark person. Finally, Snape mustered up the nerve to flick one of his long pale fingers along the edge of the heart (with silvery glitter edges, he noted, just when he thought he couldn't be more disgusted) and open it. His eyes widening in horror, he read the inscription, written in large, flourishing letters:

**Severus Snape, my knight so Rare, The master of my heart.**

**Inky black, your Eyes and hair,**

**But fair is Your soul, and as sweet as a tart.**

**You Never notice how you make my heart start,**

**Less you know how often I Envision you, tucked in your Lair,**

**Lingering always, swirling in my mind like the smoke from your Art.**

**Purposeless though it is, I will still Watch, hoping you'll see I'm there.**

**Your Visionary Valentine**

He snorted. While Snape himself was no poet (although he always thought his traditional introductory first year potion address did have a bit of…_flair_), he recognized poor poetry when it so begged to be criticized.

"A fair and sweet heart," he sneered to the walls, "How positively saccharine. My teeth hurt reading this rubbish." He bared said yellow teeth in an unconscious growl.

Snape was considerably more relaxed now, now that he was able to mock the trash. At first—for a terrifying moment—he thought that the sender sincerely regarded him with…high esteem ("love" was a term that had been carefully edited out of Snape's vocabulary). But who could be foolish enough to think that the dreaded Hogwart's potion master was a "knight" of anything? Or believe that he even _had_ a soul, let alone a fair and sweet one? Clearly, then, this was nothing more than a prank. Finding this conclusion satisfactory, the potion master embarked on his mission to make his "valentine's" life an unutterable hell.

Snape spent a week on the prowl. He observed his students for tell-tale giggles. He stalked the hallways as often as he could, looking for a cluster of guilty students. He even loosened the strident control he had on his classroom, allowing a little chatty conversation between students, waiting to see conspiratorial glances focused in his direction. By the end of the week, the only conversation about Snape was about the potion master's unaccountable relaxation of his formally inflexible discipline. A small celebration ensued at the Gryffindor table, with many toasts to the Anti-Git Potion (which, after much debate, was decided could only be the explanation for this change in behavior) that was slipped into his food. The Hufflepuffs only shrugged their shoulders at the change and maintained no opinion at all. The Ravenclaws cynically thought that Snape was distracted by his intellectual pursuits. The Slytherins, of course, assumed their Head of House had begun a new campaign of torment for the other houses, starting by lulling them into security.

Severus Snape, on the other hand, had worked himself into a furious snit by Friday evening. Not one Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, or Slytherin (Snape would not discount his little snakes-in-training—although they respected him, they were devious devils at heart that would enjoy such a prank) had so much as snickered in his direction. And no little brat—in any house—could keep their mouths shut about a prank like this for this long.

That only left the staff. Although his coworkers had given him respect since he had arrived, Snape was familiar with their brand of…humor. He mentally sniffed. If one could stoop that low to call it humor (forgetting, of course, that he himself had a nonexistent sense of humor). Unknown to the mass of adolescents, the Hogwarts professors bought nearly more Zonko joke products than their students. (In fact, the professors generated such regular business that the owner of Zonko's, who was actually disappointingly named John Smith, gave the professors a list of new inventory every school year, as well as a list of the best-selling products after a Hogsmeade weekend. Dumbledore shrugged when Snape accused him of Slytherin practices. "I'm protecting my students, Severus," he said, "After all, if they're caught using the products, especially on you, your detentions could classify as being dangerous to their mental health.") The staff regularly suffered from exploding treats and snapping tea cups from the twinkling Headmaster. The Heads of Ravenclaw and Gryffindor regularly found unpleasant surprises in one another's chambers, such as a Devil's Snare with all the properties of the plant but transfigured into an innocent looking arm chair and a Hiccupping Charm that activated when the unfortunate professor would attempt to leave her rooms. Even the somber Ancient Runes instructor, Bathsheba Babbling, participated by giving the staff a name plate written in Runes…which really turned out to be rather…_inappropriate_ descriptions (when Snape's was translated, he blushed so brightly that McGonagall remarked that he would make a commendable Gryffindor mascot). Needless to say, Snape doubted that the staff was beyond such a tasteless joke as a pretend valentine.

On Friday evening, Snape keenly observed his coworkers. Minerva, waving her hands around dramatically, was recounting something to Dumbledore, who appeared to be in deep thought (Snape knew the only thing he was deeply thinking about was the texture of his mashed potatoes. Dumbledore had learned how to tune McGonagall out decades ago, apparently). Flitwick was surreptitiously muttering under his breath in between bites, engrossed in a book, while a wandless levitating charm guided his fork with roast beef into his mouth. To his left, Snape spotted Quirrell, the twitchy Muggle Studies professor. Snape sneered to himself. The fool of a professor thought that book learning—_books_ for Merlin's sake—was enough to consider one a Dark Arts master. When he had attempted to engage Snape on his preferred reading material about vampire families in Ukraine, Snape simply replied by telling him that he had no need for vampire reading material when he had met those vampires in person. When he expanded on the subject, telling a few gristly stories about ritual blood festivals he observed, Quirrell fled the staff room, his face as white as a unicorn's backside. The stories, of course, were complete rubbish. Honestly, between completing his potion master credentials, scrapping and bowing to the Dark Lord, and changing his loyalties to a candy-mad Headmaster, how could he find time in his busy schedule to observe the blood rites of Ukrainian vampires? Snape felt little guilt in misleading the other professor; after all, he was teaching Quirrell a valuable lesson in life. Slytherins are only capable of deceiving those who remain so hopelessly gullible.

In any case, Snape doubted Quirrel had the nerve to send him a valentine. He still cringed every time Snape so much as murmured the word "teeth" (completely unintentional, of course).

Flitwick was also a negative. He had too much knowledge of Snape's capability with a wand, as a former dueling champion, to be at the opposite end of an enraged Potion Master.

McGonagall…he wouldn't put it past her. She made no secret that she disliked him. And Snape could see her writing dreadful poetry (her hair, in such a stiff bun for so long, surely would have strangled whatever creativity remained in her Gryffindor mind). But the valentine would not have been pink—it would have been red trimmed with gold. Gryffindors were not known for their subtleness, after all.

One by one, he crossed the professors off his mental list. None were quite bold enough, intelligent enough, and closed-lipped enough to outsmart the potion master (Humility had never been one of Snape's greatest assets). In fact, only one person remained as a possibility.

Albus Dumbledore pensively gazed out into the hall, unaware of the calculating look his youngest staff member was sending in his direction. The powerful Dumbledore would have no fear sending Snape a fake valentine. Yet—the poorly written poem? And no candy with the gift? Dumbledore's unique signature was missing. Or was did he omit the candy on purpose, so as to throw Snape off track and torture him further?

Needless to say, when Vector timidly asked Snape if he was anticipating the weekend, Snape snarled a sound which could have been a growl, a curse, and a giant's mating call before storming away from the table and slamming the door behind him.

The staff ignored the jingle of cutlery and glass on the table that followed the slam. After all, they had worked with Severus Snape for nearly two years. It wasn't as if this was unusual.

"Any idea why Severus is angry this time, Albus?" McGongall queried.

Dumbledore shrugged elegantly. "Does he need a reason?"

Meanwhile Snape, after deducting a record-breaking number of points from an unfortunate gaggle of Hufflepuff third years for loitering, a pair of Gryffindors for giggling, and a single Ravenclaw for sneezing loudly, threw himself into his winged leather chair by the fireplace, holding the offensive valentine by the tips of his fingers, as though it were a dungbomb ready to blow. Ready to cast the valentine into the flames, Snape sneered at it once more, determined to forget about it once and for all.

"What a pathetic excuse for a poem," he snarled, "Can't even _capitalize_ anything properly. 'Visionary,' indeed. Idiotic is—"

Snape stopped mid-insult, his mouth gaping. Swiftly, he rushed to his desk, bringing parchment and ink. Carefully, he scrawled the oddly capitalized letters in the poem. "R, T, E, Y, N, E, L, A, W." New Layter. No. Year Newt? No. Net Law Rey? Certainly not. Tree Law—

The quill slipped out of his hand and rolled along the parchment, leaving a red dripping trail. After a moment, Snape's long pale hand, trembling imperceptibly, jotted down the fateful letters. "T-R-E-L-A-W-N-E-Y." With his eye for detail, Snape vaguely noticed that the beginning letter of each line spelled out "S-I-B-Y-L-L-P." And the "Visionary Valentine." The parchment slipped to the floor, the ink spattering on Snape's dragon-skin black boots. He didn't seem to notice.

Snape's mouth opened and closed, looking like a merman desperately gasping for a watery breath.

At first he had been annoyed. Then he had been angry.

But now he was horrified.

This wasn't a joke. Someone _fancied_ him.

No, not just anyone. _Sibyll Trelawney _fancied him. And thought his soul was _sweet_.

And actually thought he would enjoy a sodding _hot pink sparkling valentine_.

For a brief moment, Snape wondered if the Dementors in Azkaban would have been a better choice than a professorship at Hogwarts.

Sternly, the stood up from his chair. This was unacceptable. There had to be a way to stop this nonsense before his "valentine" became bolder in her…pursuit. What dignity would be left to him if it were discovered that _Sibyll Trelawney_ fancied him?

After several paces around the room, several thrown jars of fluid, and some impressive cursing, Severus Snape sat down in his chair and smiled.

A smile that would send any Hogwarts student with a healthy sense of self-preservation scrambling for cover.

For the first time since beginning to teach, Snape couldn't wait for Monday.

((Surprised? In case I still have a few readers that are confused--aside from the first letter in the line of the poem, there are 9 letters that are capitalized for no reason...combine these words together, they form the name "Trelawney." If you look at the first letters of the lines vertically, you see they read "SibyllP." While originally the first letter of the last line was an "S," I changed it to a "P" for Trelawney's middle name--Patricia.

In addition--in my first story, I have the Muggle Studies teacher as Charity Burbage. I was corrected that, indeed, Quirrell was the first Muggle Studies teacher and have thus changed it. Also, the name of the Ancient Runes professor is from HP Lexicon, but not canon. Everything else not in the books is made up by me for creativity sake.

An additional note: If anyone read this post before and notices it is different...it is. I posted the work-in-progress version of the story, not the completed one. Sorry for the confusion.

Hope you enjoyed...the second part is coming up soon!))


	4. Valentine's Day Part Two

((Sorry for the delay...on a bit of a mini-trip this weekend (no where exciting, I assure you) and couldn't reach a computer. Here's the rest of the post.))

Valentine's Day Part Two

On Monday morning, peering over his nose, looking more like an oversized bird of prey than usual, Snape observed his victim. His object of scrutiny was sitting at the staff room table, peering at her bracelets as though they held all the secrets of universe. Snape nearly snorted. For all he knew about Divination (he was never foolish enough to attend that pathetic excuse of a class), she thought those bangles _did_ have a purpose. Wrapped with gauzy blue and purple robes, dripping with shawls, and tinkling with her jewelry, Sibyll Trelawney appeared to have entered into battle with an old woman's wardrobe and came out the loser. However, as she gazed pensively out the window, coupled with her deep, meditative sigh, Snape thought that Trelawney seemed—for a brief moment—like a legendary seer from the eons before, trapped in a modern, disbelieving age. A second later, she was blinking owlishly at her jewelry, once again the crazy Divinations professor who couldn't see through a dark room let alone the murky folds of the future.

Not to mention her status as the _eccentric_ Divinations professor. She holed herself up in the Astronomy Tower, almost never appearing at any meals or staff meetings. When the subject of Trelawney's position of the castle hermit was rehashed among irritated professors who didn't give a damn about Dumbledore's meetings (Snape always included in this group), Dumbledore would only shrug at his employees' annoyance. "Sibyll would not be an asset to this meeting, even if she did attend. After all, organization and logical thinking are not her chief skills. (McGongall's snort at that comment expressed all that needed to be said.) And, as our 

Divination's professor, she does need to keep her…Inner Eye from being blighted by the trivialities of daily Hogwarts life." At this point McGonagall commented that the only thing Trelawney was blighting was her sanity. In this one (and only one) circumstance, Snape and McGonagall agreed completely. But Snape kept his comments to himself—after all, Trelawney was Dumbledore's pet prophet and had to be protected. His face tightened grimly, thinking of the night at Hog's Head. Didn't he know Trelawney's worth better than anyone?

In any case, Snape needed Trelawney out of her tower—he was not going to venture in her incense reeking haven. So, after asking the house elves to anonymously place paper-wrapped packages of "incense" in her fireplace (which really happened to be Dungbombs) on Sunday night, Trelawney fled the Astronomy Tower to escape the smell while Filch cleaned the mess. So, as both were not teaching class, Snape took his opportunity to descend on his prey.

Carefully, silently, Snape swept behind the Divinations professor. He cleared his throat delicately. She turned so quickly behind her that her glasses went askew.

"Sev—Severus!" she stammered, "I didn't realize—that is to say—"

"Of course, Sibyll," Snape murmured delicately, "You were deep in thought…seeing things that are to be, yes?"

Snape's voice was perhaps his only pleasing feature. When not snapping at students or growling at his colleagues, Snape's voice could purr as delicately as an evening breeze—dark yet undeniably alluring. Lulling yet with a hint of danger lurking behind every syllable. His students had long ago learned to fear this voice more than his scathing insults or his withering sarcasm, as it tended to precede very agonizing and long detentions. Trelawney, unfortunately for her, was unaware of this.

"Yes," she said, her eyes widening, thrilled at this sign of belief, "Yes—I was thinking of your future, Severus." She took a hold of his wrist, as if to hold him before he could flee. Every atom of his being wanted to hex her on the spot. Instead, he resolutely kept his wand tucked away and raised an interested eyebrow.

"And what is my future, Sibyll?" he asked, never louder than a pleasing hum, "Any…cauldron explosions? Dangerous students holding grudges?"

She giggled. She might have thought she her laugh sounded throaty and attractive but sounded to Snape like she had a bad head cold. "No—no more pleasant than that. Divination is not all doom and dread, my _dear_ Severus." She blinked lovingly through her thick glasses. Valiantly, Snape attempted to smile despite his growing horror, but felt that his lips only twitched painfully instead. Trelawney ignored this and—to Snape's terror—brushed her fingers along the buttons on the wrist of his robes, in what appeared to be an adoring stroke.

The man could only handle so much. He gently disengaged his wrist from Trelawney's and, seeing her displeasure, was swift to ask, "Please—tell me what you see, Sibyll." He could not choke out "Sibyll dear." Even a turncoat spy had some lines he couldn't cross.

She pulled herself up proudly. Her voice dropped the attempted huskiness and switched to a higher register, misty and distant. "I see a woman in your future—older yes, but…mystical and powerful…who appreciates you and cares for you."

Snape nearly smirked at "mystical and powerful" but remained stony-faced. "Do go on."

"She is near you," she continued, closing her eyes dramatically and pointing her finger into the air in front of her, "Perhaps closer than you can _imagine_."

Snape nodded soberly, deep in thought. "I see. Yes, I see. I must keep my eyes open for this woman, Sibyll…close to me, you say?"

She nodded vigorously, the fake mysticism vanished entirely, leaving a little woman who appeared to be impersonating an ugly lampshade.

He slowly stood and crossed the room, looking thoughtfully in front of him. He had to be careful—if she realized what he was up to—

"Well—it will be difficult—to find someone who matches my personality, of course."

She clapped her hands together delightfully. Her bangles on her wrists nearly tangled together in her enthusiasm. "I'm sure there would be a woman who would be willing to…to work out a few things for you, _dearest_ Severus."

"Someone who enjoys quiet, of course," he continued, keeping his back carefully turned to her, "And doesn't mind living at Hogwarts."

"Yes—absolutely." She sounded like a little girl who just discovered Christmas had arrived early.

"Who appreciates potions and other magical disciplines."

"But of course!"

He took a deep breath. "And who, of course, has a natural element that is not fire."

"Abso—" The silence in the room bubbled like a cauldron just about to boil over.

Snape turned carefully. "The Zodiac signs, yes? As a Divinations instructor, you can see how _essential_ they are to a partnership of any kind."

Her mouth opened and closed. The shawls wrapped around her hair had unwound at some point during the discussion, leaving one long end unattractively hanging over one Galleon-thick eye glass.

He continued. "My sign is the Capricorn—that sign corresponds with earth as the natural element. The other three elements are air, water, and fire, I believe. But fire and earth do not mix, according to the history of Divination. Am I correct?"

Trelawney's finally returned. She sounded like a little girl again, but one that has been startled by a pop quiz. "I—yes—and your birthday is—"

"January 9th," he answered smoothly, "And yours is…that's right. In March, correct? In fact…I believe your element is fire, is it not?"

She nodded. He allowed a few minutes for comprehension, before she returned to her misty ways.

"Perhaps association with the ungifted has darkened my Inner Eye, Severus." He noted with delight that she had dropped the "dearest." "I believed for a moment that…well…I will see, once I have returned to my tower, a clearer view of your future."

"I look forward with unabashed expectation," he muttered dryly. Perhaps Trelawney sensed the disbelief in his voice—or perhaps her lack of Divination research in her romantic affairs awakened her sense of self-preservation. In any case, she floated out of the staff room and back to the safety of her tower, never to send Severus Snape a valentine ever again.

A few minutes later, Snape's Potion class (Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors, Snape's favorite targets) was gathered, chatting amicably. Their cauldrons were still stowed away, their books still in their backpacks. The old bat of the past, they thought, was gone for good.

A moment later, the door opened with a resounding crack, followed by the storming figure of their enraged Potion Master.

Dead silence descended. Even Reginald Roverston, the Gryffindor class clown, froze completely, the squirming Chocolate Frog he was about to put in his potion partner's backpack melting in his hand.

"No, do continue," Snape hissed, the temperature in the room falling to arctic levels at the sound of his voice, "Finish your conversations. I do realize that your time is limited by myself and my colleague's failed attempts to educate you. So—please, do go on. No? Well—20 points from Gryffindor and Hufflepuff for not being prepared for class. Another 15, Mr. Roverston, for a pathetic attempt at a prank. Oh—another five points from each student that does not have class books out…in five seconds." The scuffle that followed the announcement warmed Snape's nonexistent heart. He turned his back, walking towards the blackboard to write the instructions. A moment later, he was glaring down at his students from his desk, taking points off for every whisper. When class was finished, both houses moved out of the dungeon door in silence. On their way out, Snape caught a bit of their conversation.

"Nasty git," one said, "That much homework at the beginning of the week? And a test on Wednesday? Surely even he must have a heart?"

"Heart?" one laughed, "Certainly not that—I'd doubt he even has a _soul_."

Snape quietly closed the door behind him and sat at his desk. A moment later, he pulled out Trelawney's valentine

So they believed him to be a nasty, heartless, soulless, git.

With a flick of his wand, the heart began to blaze, the pink edges curling to a satisfying gray.

And he smirked.

Perfect.

((Notes: No, I did not make up the elements/Zodiac. I spent a decent time on the internet researching this as sneaky Snape needed to have Sibyll convince HERSELF to leave him alone. Also, of course, Snape does not believe in Zodiac compatibility (and neither does, to be honest, the author) but this story is not mocking anyone who DOES believe in it. Snape is a manipulator...and that's something about Trelawney that he can work with. Just so I don't see any angry reviews from believers in Zodiac compatibility.

Also, Trelawney's birthday is not listed on HP Lexicon. It is totally made up by me to fit with the plot. Snape's birthday, however, is January 9th according to JKR, and therefore the HP Lexicon.

I don't have any new stories written at the moment, but I have some ideas brewing. Let's see what the plot bunnies create next. Thanks for reading!))


	5. Boy's Night Out Part One

Hello everyone. Sorry for not updating in a while. I rather died on fanfiction. University work, traveling...it just hasn't been very conducive to writing about our dear potion's master. Anyway, here is part one of the one shot. The second one is fresh off the presses, so it will take a bit more time to edit before I post it.

A note: this really didn't naturally fall into two parts, but the story is too long for one post, I think. So it just...ends. The next part will pick right up where it left off. Sorry, it just didn't work out neatly this time.

Also, we're entering into rather black humor, perhaps even more so than my earlier posts. This is about Death Eaters. Death Eaters are not nice people. But they are people, and I hope I have been able to portray them as such--not entirely evil, but pretty darn close to it. In other words, do not expect cute cuddly Death Eaters with Daddy issues and A Need To Be Loved.

JKR still owns all these people. The jokes are mine. And I don't share as willingly as JKR does.))

Boy's Night Out

Severus Snape looked into the gold-rimmed tea cup in his hands and desperately wished for something stronger.

Butterbeer, perhaps. No, firewiskey, even better. Who cared if it wasn't noon yet?

"Are you listening to me, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, "I can't have you meeting with them again if you aren't properly prepared."

Snape grimaced at his cup again. Perhaps arsenic would be best.

"Yes, Headmaster," Snape replied, glancing out from under his hair, "I'm listening. Or have you forgotten that my current employ is based on my ability to listen to your orders about what I am to do while meeting with my old associates?"

Dumbledore only smiled brightly in return. "Not entirely. You are a very…commanding professor in the classroom."

Snape snorted. He wondered if the old man forgot about his nearly monthly sessions with the potion's master that entailed things like point taking liberties, cruel and unusual punishments for students, and learning to look on the bright side of life. Dumbledore called them "positive reinforcement seminars," something he acquired out of a Muggle book. Snape always thought of them as saccharine torture sessions. They were almost as painfully sweet as the cup of milky, sugar water that Dumbledore had the nerve to call tea. Almost.

Snape wondered, not for the first time, who was the worst master, Dumbledore or the Dark Lord. While the point remained moot, Snape did concede that while the Dark Lord used the Cruciatius Curse on his followers, he at least never insulted his servants by pretending that his torture sessions were fun and uplifting.

Clearly, Dumbledore created a whole new realm of evil.

"In any case, Headmaster," Snape intoned, putting the untouched cup of sugar milk on the table beside him, "I know what needs to be done. Unless you think a group of former enemies to the public, who have been behaving like model citizens in the eyes of the Ministry for two years, having drinks together counts as a threat to wizarding security?"

"You know what these people are capable of, Severus," Dumbledore seriously replied.

The potion's master nodded gravely. "Indeed." There wasn't any use fighting with the old fart. If he wanted to believe that former Death Eaters spent all their free time plotting hostile world take-over, or at least heinous plots against the innocent Ministry members (Snape, of course, used the term "innocent" sarcastically. After all, he had been employed by evil incarnate and was still shocked by the cutthroat moves and slicing insults exchanged with smiles over desks and boardroom tables in every department of the Ministry. One disagreement over lunch arrangements grew so heated that the two witches were hospitalized for two weeks. One needed to have the additional head that sprouted from her neck reduced and other needed to time to molt her feathers), so be it.

Snape did know these men, as Dumbledore said. He knew them as his other master's devoted followers, of course. They were favor-seeking soldiers in the Dark Lord's army, constant defenders of pureblood wizardry, and very capable and willing killers.

But Snape also knew them as the men he met with for drinks every six months or so.

He always considered it very fortunate that these different men never seemed to be acquainted with the other.

Dumbledore interrupted his thoughts. "Severus, you've barely touched your tea. Have some more and we'll go over it again."

With a heavy sigh, Snape resignedly downed as much tea as he could, as though he were swallowing a particularly strong shot, and prepared himself for another cross-examination.

Severus Snape hated many things. Teaching. Small children. Gryffindors. Large children. Dumbledore. Medium sized children. But Snape also hated these "boy's nights out," as Narcissa Malfoy insisted on calling them. Dumbledore, who had to hear Snape gripe about them for weeks afterward, assumed that Snape hated socializing (which was true—Snape commonly vanished for weeks on end during the summer months, when he was not required to attend meals in the Great Hall. Always looking for inventive ways to irritate his reclusive potion's master, Dumbledore assigned house elves to follow Snape around for weeks while he was not spending time with the staff. After various curses and potion "accidents" did not keep the house elves from obeying the Headmaster's orders with exact precision, Snape conceded defeat and sulkily attended meals for the rest of the summer holidays). Dumbledore, in his softer moments, also believed that Snape disliked attending, as they stirred painful memories of his crimes as a Death Eater.

Snape always believed that it was this kind of sentimental dribble that kept Dumbledore in Hogwarts and out of the Dark Lording game. Or at least politics.

No, Snape hated attending these meetings for a host of different reasons.

And he was sitting right in front of them.

"Another sandwich, Severus?" Lucius Malfoy asked, "The cucumber is your favorite, correct?"

"Malfoy," Walden Macnair said between clenched teeth, "How many times do I have to bloody tell you—you do _not_ eat tea sandwiches with firewhiskey."

Malfoy humphed delicately. "I don't see why not. They're perfectly good at nighttime as well as tea time. Don't you think so, Severus?"

Snape didn't even bother to formulate a reply. Crabbe and Goyle, predictably, mumbled their agreement.

"'Course, Lucius, they're as good now as bleeding tea time."

"I agree completely, Lucius."

The two men gave Snape the impression of shrunken trolls—slow, solid, and stupid. And potentially vile smelling, he thought, if their unfortunate wives didn't force them to bathe occasionally.

Satisfied, Malfoy turned back to the plate and plucked a cucumber sandwich, eating it with relish. Macnair shook his head with disgust, gulping down another healthy portion of his drink.

"Dumbledore giving you much trouble, Snape?" Avery asked. He was a thin faced, jittery man whose hand twitched frequently by his wand, as though he had to remind himself not to use it on the general population. Which, as Snape recalled of Avery during his Death Eater years, could be the case. But Snape was more inclined to believe that Avery's anxiety stemmed from a more frightening source.

As if on cue, the fireplace exploded with the very broad, angry face of Mrs. Hippolyita Avery. Every man in the room cringed, while Avery turned a very startling white.

"Justinius!" she screeched, like a harpy with a bad hair day, "I certainly hope there aren't any _women_ at this party!"

"No, dear," he feebly said, "No, it's just like the others, dearest one. No women here."

"_Well_," she said, her voice full of smug condensation, "that's what my sister Matilda's husband said to _her_. And see what happened in _that_ mess."

"Well, my dear," Avery meekly said, "I would not do that to you. You are not your sister Matilda, dearest."

Rather than being soothed, her face seemed to redden, to spite the green flames. "Are you _insulting_ my sister Matilda? I'm _certain_ I couldn't stand for that, Justinius. Not one _bit_!"

Snape wondered if she said everything with implied italics. As if her booming voice did not make its point all on its own.

"My dear," Avery sputtered, realizing that he had dug himself in once again.

With a shrill scream that could have been tears (Snape rather thought it sounded like the mating call of a dragon), Mrs. Avery left the fireplace.

"Oh, she'll be upset," Avery murmured, wringing his hands, "Lucius, would you mind…?"

The latter gestured elegantly to the fireplace, while his other hand swirled the dark brandy around the exquisite cut glass decanter. While he looked very introspective, Snape knew that Malfoy was only doing it because he thought it made him look debonair.

Avery dashed to the fireplace and tossed in the floo powder. Only the Avery household was connected to the Malfoy floo, which had more charms and wards than the Ministry itself. But Narcissa had insisted for Lucius to create one for the Avery's, as she was tired of running to fetch Avery every half-an-hour that his wife floo called.

A moment after Avery left, Crabbe and Goyle were chuckling oafishly.

"Tied by the apron strings, isn't he?" Crabbe sneered.  
"A regular slave to his wife," Goyle replied.

"Pathetic."

"Wouldn't let my wife get away with that."

"That's because your wives are thrilled to be rid of you," Nott said, "And knows that no woman would actually desire your company."

Snape smirked. He actually liked Nott. He was a true Slytherin, wily and cunning, and always willing to lend a hand in some potentially illegal fun. He also was smart enough to keep his activities with the Dark Lord quiet, always remaining a loyal Death Eater while never becoming worthy of notice. Rather than a regrettably _Gryffindor_ desire for glory that made other Death Eater's distasteful, Nott capitalized on a Slytherin's greatest skill—survival. Snape even supposed he considered him a friend. If one could consider someone a friend who would stab his own mother with a knife in a dark alley if there was chance and motivation.

Suddenly a loud crash from the other side of the room turned everyone's attention to Macnair, who was holding the shattered remains of a glass and looking at the table with a crazed, manic glint in his eye.

"For heaven's sake, Macnair," Malfoy asked, "What is the matter?"

"There was a fly," the other replied, in a soft voice, "And I killed it."

"Well, did you have to kill the glass, too?" Malfoy asked pettishly, "That was specially spun French glassware, you know. By pixies."

"I say!" Crabbe exclaimed.

"Why I never!" Goyle enjoined.

While Malfoy began to tell his entranced audience about the intricacies of magical glass making, Snape waved his wand and repaired the glass. Macnair continued to stare at the dead fly, as though engraving the vision into his memory to treasure later.

Nott and Snape exchanged glances. Macnair had not done well since the Dark Lord's…whatever.

Macnair had a talent. Like some witches and wizards are made to play Quidditch, excel in charms, or make potions, Macnair was very good at killing people. In numerous, creative ways. Servitude with the Dark Lord suited Macnair perfectly—after all, what other profession encouraged wide-spread killing? In all truthfulness, Macnair was not a cruel man—he didn't give a damn about pure-bloods, half-bloods, and Muggle-borns. He just wanted to be able to kill some or all of these individuals in any manner he desired. He was a simple man with simple needs.

And as society did not advocate that sort of thing, Macnair suffered to keep his talent from the world. After a month of forced inactivity after the Dark Lord's fall, Macnair started killing household pests with his wand—spiders, mice, an occasional stray cat. Before long, he had cleaned out his house of magical pests as well—doxys in the curtains in the dining room, the Cornish pixie nest in the attic. Soon, once the initial thrill died off, he began to investigate more…creative ways of extermination (unfortunately, Macnair treated Snape to a few examples of these methods—one of which included a rubber band, a quill, and a stirring rod. Snape couldn't mix a potion for a week without shuddering).

After a several months, his house and the houses of many "reformed" Death Eaters were pest free, and Macnair was eager to take his new line of work—a wizarding exterminator service—to his enthralled public. A few months later Macnair came again to Snape, wondering why business requests weren't coming in, after the first few houses had gone so well! Snape privately thought it might have to do with Macnair exterminating doxy's by turning them into pin cushions—and not through any Transfiguration. Or perhaps because he asked the owners if they enjoyed the screams. But Snape only patted Macnair on the back (carefully, who knew what kind of knives he had on him) and murmured something about the winter weather driving more insects into the houses. It had been two months, 15 days, and 7 hours since Macnair killed anything. Well. At least anything out of the ordinary and soothing to his artistic sensibilities, of course.

Macnair leaned closer to the fly and watched it unblinkingly. His tongue was sticking out in concentration and anticipation.

"Not to worry," Nott remarked, "I think I have a position open for him in the Ministry."

"The Ministry?" Snape echoed, "I realize how blood-thirsty they are, but even Macnair wouldn't suit their tastes. After all, they at least pretend not to enjoy tearing each other's throats out."

Macnair lifted his head up hopefully at Snape's last statement. "Whose throat is being torn out?"

"Figure of speech, Walden," Nott remarked.

The other man sighed deeply and returned to watching the fly.

"There's a position open in the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures," Nott continued in a low voice.

"Not desk work, I hope," Snape said.

"Oh, it should be a very…_hands-on_ sort of job, I should say. And when there's a lull in…committee activities, Walden can chat with the other employees."

"Will they appreciate Macnair's….flair for the job?"

Nott smiled grimly. "Don't worry about that, Snape. I know the department well. He'll fit right in. Trust me."

When the fly's leg twitched, Macnair's black mustache gave a twitch of interest. With a shiver, Snape turned away. "Right."

((A note--aside from Malfoy and Macnair, we know very little about these Death Eaters from JKR. I picked some Death Eaters from the HP Lexicon because they were not in Azkaban. Everything else not on the Lexicon is made up. Also, in case you didn't catch it, Macnair's ministry position is as an executioner, as he was in the third book. The next post will probably be up by next week.))


	6. Boy's Night Out Part Two

((Hello? Anyone there? Well, I'm posting the next part anyway...just a warning. I tried to control the creative urge, but at the end, there is a bit of a tone/theme shift and becomes more serious. Black comedy does rather balance on the line between amusing and serious. And I felt as though the ending needed to be addressed, if not greatly elaborated on. If you would like to end the story on a humorous note, stop reading at the gap towards the end. If not, consider this an occasional break from the constant sillness of these stories))

Boy's Night Out Part Two

A moment later, Avery stumbled through the fireplace and back into the room. Judging by the state of his robes, it appeared that he had been yanked repeatedly by the collar. A rash of turquoise colored spots covering his face also indicated that Mrs. Avery still disapproved of her husband's comments about her poor sister. Goyle and Crabbe tittered, as expected. Macnair was still fascinated with the dying fly. Snape and Nott didn't laugh—after all, brightly colored spots were Mrs. Avery's specialty. They had seen several variations before ("I was disappointed she didn't choose the lime green ones," Nott confessed to Snape later). Malfoy only glanced at Avery with disdain, although, Snape mused, probably not because Avery let his wife to curse him. He was likely annoyed that the turquoise clashed badly with Avery's burgundy colored robes.

"Well," Avery said, after a moment, "Hippolyita and I…_discussed_ things. She shouldn't be intruding again." He tried to give the room a smug smile but only managed to grimace.

The rest of the room looked at him with blank disbelief. Avery sat down in the corner seat and took a large gulp of firewhiskey.

"Well," Malfoy said, with a sniff, "You could at least lift the charm." He raised his wand.

"No!" Avery hastily said, "Hippolyita would be upset and—" He spotted Goyle and Crabbe snickering in the corner. He puffed out his chest and gave Malfoy a conspiratorial wink. "She would be upset—have to let the wife have her little victories, right, Malfoy?"

Nott snorted audibly. Snape merely smirked and took another drink. He rather thought that Mrs. Avery had long since stopped fighting for little victories and simply went for the Quidditch World Cup when it came to her husband.

Malfoy sighed. He very delicately massaged his temples, being careful not to disturb his hair. "Oh, very well. But those spots simply do _nothing_ for you, Avery. With your skin tone, the color of the robes…"

Nott groaned behind him. Snape closed his eyes, slowly counted the twelve uses for dragon's blood, and pretended that he wasn't there.

Unfortunately, upon reaching reason number six (oven cleaner), Snape realized that closing his eyes in Malfoy Manor was not the wisest decision.

His eyes snapped open when Narcissa's screech ripped through the house.

He was running down the hallway with the others a second later.

Wands drawn, Snape looked at his companions. Avery, despite the spots, looked like a bird of prey descending on his kill. Nott had a thin smile on his face, possibly contemplating what dark spell he would use. Snape even had to confess that Malfoy looked rather grand. His navy robes just brushed against the floor, murmuring silken threats with every step, and his blonde hair trailed behind him, giving him the appearance of the angel of death seeking vengeance. Even Crabbe and Goyle looked reasonably aware of their surroundings. For a moment Snape could almost pretend that it was the good old days (not that the days were _good_, of course, but were occasionally tolerable), when the inhabitants of Knockturn Alley fled their approach, wondering what monstrosities the Dark Lord's followers would to be committing that night (usually they weren't doing anything—they were just going to the pub for some drinks, but the illusion was useful for avoiding crowds). Snape's drinking companions were gone—the trained killers of earlier years had taken their places.

They turned the corner, a beautiful crescendo of whipping robes and snapping cloaks, their wands aloft, ready for battle.

They all froze at the strange sight before them.

Nott was the first to regain his voice. "Seriously, Malfoy—seriously?"

Malfoy straightened and frowned. "I purchased them for Narcissa," he said tightly.

Narcissa huffed with annoyance. "Stop bickering about why they're here—just stop Macnair from _killing_ one of them!"

Macnair, who must have slipped out of the room at some point, had cornered a white peacock. The creature was staring haughtily at Macnair (Snape rather thought the creature's attitude would fit right in at the Manor) but made no attempt to move. Macnair was grinning manically at it.

The two stared at each other for a moment. The bird's head jerked to the side. Macnair's mustache twitched hopefully.

"All right, Macnair," Malfoy said, walking forward, "I paid a good deal of money for those birds and you can't just—"

Macnair turned towards Malfoy, his wand aloft. The unholy fire burning in his eyes actually made Malfoy take a step back.

"I say," Malfoy tried feebly, "I say Macnair—Walden—really, you shouldn't—that is to say I really would prefer if you wouldn't—"

"You can't have a Killing Curse on your wand, Macnair," Nott said, unflustered, "You're going to be working for the Ministry soon. Then you'll be to kill whatever—"  
Macnair only advanced another step towards the unfortunate bird. It gave a feeble squawk and tried to push itself further into the corner. White feathers were cascading all over the floor.

Then several things happened at once. The bird tried to make a run for it, Nott shouted something, Malfoy stepped forward to take the bird, and Macnair raised his wand, uttering a savage sound of anger. Snape, in a sharp moment of clarity, realized how glad he was that he had never been partnered with Macnair on any Death Eater duties.

A moment later Macnair was on the floor, Stunned. Malfoy had bent to soothe the bird. Nott was by Macnair's side. And Narcissa Malfoy was standing with her wand out, glaring at the general assembly of men. Snape felt like a first year about to be told off by McGonagall for being late for class.

"What a fine group of wizards we have here," Narcissa quietly snapped, "What a fine outstanding group of wizards that are incapable of casting a single Stunner—that are afraid of a man trying to kill a bloody—oh, don't make that sound at me Lucius, I have just as much right to curse as you—_bird_. Well. I shall go back to the drawing room where helpless ladies like myself wait so the men can _take care of me_."

Narcissa gave a final parting glare on the assembly before turning rather magnificently on her heel, marching into the next room, and slamming the door.

The lot of them, levitating Macnair behind them, retired to the drinking room in shame.

Eventually, Macnair revived. He looked around briefly for his victim. Then he returned to himself and cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"I—I suppose I got a bit carried away," he mumbled, "It's the fly that did it, really. And there hasn't been a single spider in my house for weeks now. Really, I didn't mean anything by it."

Malfoy, with the air of generous magnanimity, gave Macnair a nod. "It's all right, Macnair. No harm done. You gave Narcissa a bit of a fright, but she'll recover quite well."

Nott grinned. "It seems that Narcissa recovers faster than you do, Malfoy. You were just stepping forward by the time her wand was drawn and Stunning Macnair. By the way, what did you whisper to the bird before we returned?"

Malfoy turned quickly away, going to refill the decanter. "I haven't the least idea what you mean, Nott—whispering to the bird, indeed."

"I believe you said that you were _so_ sorry about the bad man frightening it—"

"More firewhiskey!" Lucius exclaimed, rather desperately, "Does anyone want more firewhiskey?"

"—but that you would see it and all the other 'darlings' later in their coop."

Malfoy muttered distractedly, saying "perfectly ridiculous" under his breath, while pouring more firewhiskey for Crabbe and Goyle.

"I do believe Mrs. Malfoy was rather remarkable, though," Nott said, "She rather put us all in our place. Scary thing, she is. But she is a Black sister. The middle one, the Ravenclaw, she was a piece of work too—what was her name—"

"Andromeda," Malfoy said shortly, "But we don't mention her name in this house. It upsets Narcissa, you see."

"Well, one sister's a disgrace," Avery said casually, "It's bound to happen. You can always say Narcissa took after Bellatrix—"

There was a universal shudder in the room. They had worked with Bellatrix too long to be much impressed with her intelligence, dueling skills, and beauty. They were much too occupied with trying to remain alive during encounters with her to give her much appreciation.

"—or perhaps just her mother?" Avery suggested, his voice subdued.

"Yes, yes," Malfoy said, sitting down to have another sandwich. He pulled his hand back in horror. "Who poured firewhiskey on my _sandwich_?"

Crabbe shrugged. "Spilled a bit. Sorry. It's all going to the same place, anyway."

"That is beside the point, Crabbe—it's the principle of the thing. If you had any grasp on etiquette, you would know that an apology would be called for. Yes, they're all going to the same place, but that doesn't give you leave to—"

"Malfoy, stop talking like you're an old maid that had her virtue insulted," Nott snapped, "It's just a bloody sandwich."

"'It's just a bloody sandwich.' At least I don't behave like a Muggle barbarian like you."

Malfoy and Nott began to snap at one another. Crabbe and Goyle gave up attempting to understand what they were supposed to be agreeing with Malfoy about and started tossing crisps up in the air to catch in their mouths. They missed more often than not. Avery stammered something about the time and checking in with Hippolyita before hurrying through the floo. No one noticed when he left. Macnair had started scribbling on a spare piece of parchment (Snape hoped it was one of Malfoy's specialty spell-scented parchments, just to see his fury). He looked like he was making a trap for birds (a bird with very large tail feathers) using a fork, a thimble, and a Fizzing Wizzbee. Snape glanced at it before deciding to look away for his own sanity.

Just as Malfoy started to make pointed comments about Nott's mother's ancestry (some shameful relations to the Weasley's and a wizard that performed magic tricks for Muggles), Snape glanced at the clock and sighed. Another hour and he could leave.

Crabbe and Goyle were attempting to turn the crisps into chips, all the while with their wands pointed too closely to one another's faces. Macnair had moved on to a second sheet of paper, his tongue sticking out in either concentration or feverish delight. Nott nastily reminded Malfoy that Malfoy's second cousin, who had also been on the Board of Governors, had been the one to successfully lobby for a Muggle Studies class to be taught at Hogwarts.

Snape sunk down in the seat while Malfoy's furious reply echoed through the room.

Perhaps a half an hour would be sufficient.

Snape wearily walked back down to the dungeons. He had been crossed examined by Dumbledore ("The walking one-man Wizengamot," Snape muttered to himself) for nearly an hour. And for nearly an hour Snape informed Dumbledore that these men had no desire to poison the water supply, torture Muggle-borns, or even so much as park their broomsticks illegally. The worse Snape could admit was that Malfoy probably obtained the white peacocks through less than savory means.

Snape threw himself down in his leather arm chair by the fire, which instantly lit upon his entrance. He normally had a glass of wine in the evening, but he felt he had had more than enough to drink tonight. Instead, he sat and stared at the fire.

Although his former associates were not committing any heinous acts at the moment, Snape knew it was only a matter of time before he would be forced to tell Dumbledore some of their wrong doings. It was a troubling thought. Snape hadn't given a damn about betraying the Dark Lord. Whatever brilliance had glimmered in the Dark Lord had long since burned itself into self-absorbed madness. The only one who took him seriously at the end was Bellatrix. And as she was also a step away from being admitted to Bedlam herself, she was hardly much support for the Dark Lord. But Snape hadn't really considered betraying his comrades. Could he betray these men that many would consider Snape's only friends?

He stared into the fire for a moment. He then summoned a glass and a bottle of elf-wine. What the hell. Surely betrayal would be easier to swallow with some more alcohol down his throat.

As he sat by the fire and drank, Snape's mind wandered. He thought of dominated Avery attacking Muggles. He remembered how foppish Malfoy also took great joy in using the Cruciatus Curse on out of favor Death Eaters. He thought of witty Nott reveling in a triumph over the Aurors. He saw broken Macnair using knives in rather artistic if horrifying ways.

He was not betraying the men he had drinks with. He was betraying the men they became under the Dark Lord.

With solemn ceremony, Snape raised his glass, toasting the empty room.

"To you, gentlemen—whatever the future may bring."

((Textual note: I had to get the white peacocks in there somewhere. When they turned up in DH, I just about died. How perfect for Malfoy, really. Also, there are twelves uess for Dragon's Blood and one of them does happen to be for oven cleaning. Who knew.))


	7. The Intruder Part One

((Hello everyone! Less than a month to go until I'm home. I've been studying abroad in the UK for the term, but my last exam is in a week (mild panic). Obviously, procrastination was called for, hence the finishing of this very strange story I started a little over a month ago. But first, thanks to those who reviewed--I believe I've replied to all of you. I hope you enjoy the next bit. The second part of this story should be up in a week or so.))

The Intruder

In the pitch dark of his bedroom, Snape's eyes snapped open. He was in his four poster bed, lying on his back, his arms tucked beneath his pillow. Only a moment ago, he had been having a very strange dream involving Dumbledore and Trelawney in Muggle Hawaiian shirts getting lost in the tundra (so, a good dream). However, Snape was an extremely light sleeper, some of that based on natural inclination and most of it on survival. Living in dormitories with magical adolescent boys was dangerous enough, but Snape also had to live in the Slytherin dormitories as the most unpopular boy in his house (in the entire school, in all truthfulness) in a dormitory of magical, _bored_ adolescent boys. Being able to wake from the smallest of sounds could save one the joys unnatural hair colors and changed voices (after Snape suffered a week in his third year sounding like a falsetto, to the uproarious joy of his classmates, he spent the next month more awake in bed than asleep). While Snape hadn't had roommates for several years, the habit was difficult to break, leaving Snape wide awake at the slightest drip from the cold stone walls of his dungeon rooms.

However, for the first time in years, Snape was glad of his unusual gift.

Something was in his room.

The thought was impossible. His wards could keep out a charging mountain troll, and no one, aside from perhaps Dumbledore, could remove them.

This reassurance did not change his conviction that _something_ was in the room with him.

Snape's breathing remained even and slow, and he dared not move a muscle. He might have been caught asleep, but he would at least have an element of surprise on his side. He moved his eyes to the left—only his wardrobe, bookshelf, a couch, and armchair. He looked to his right—he saw nothing but his desk and leather chair. No Disillusionment charms were allowed in the castle. Invisibility cloak? Snape nearly snorted. As though anyone in Hogwarts would have their hands on one of those.

Then Snape looked directly in front of him.

For a moment his breath caught. Only then did he feel the…the…

_Humming_?

Suddenly, as though the intruder had felt the brief cessation of his breath, Snape saw a pair of luminous eyes staring at him, hovering just over his chest.

A second later, Snape had his wand (he slept with it under his pillow, another trick he learned from seven years of Slytherin dormitories) pointed at the eyes.

He noted that the eyes did not move, but the strange vibrations on his chest had stopped. He also noticed that the eyes seemed to be attached to a very small, warm body, probably no heavier than a loaf of bread.

"_Lumos_, he said. The light made him squint for a moment. After blinking, he realized he had had his wand pointed to a very small kitten.

It blinked back at him, its blue eyes curiously observing him.

"Mew?" it seemed to inquire.

Snape sat up, tugging the white kitten's claws from his nightshirt.

"Probably one of my Slytherins's new pets," Snape growled at the creature, holding it away from his body as though it were explosive potion ingredients, "Well I'm not playing lost and found with you." Snape walked across the room, the kitten wrigging in his hands. He put the creature on the floor outside of his door. He sneered at the kitten. "Have a wonderful evening. Hope Mrs. Norris doesn't find you."

With hardly a glance more at the animal, Snape closed the door and threw himself back into bed. He had potions with Hufflepuff third years that morning—he needed the rest.

Snape woke up that morning by sneezing. He grimaced without opening his eyes. Strange. He only sneezed when there was a—

"Mew?"

Snape lurched out of bed, his arms spiraling wildly as though desperately attempting flight, before losing his balance and tumbling off the side of his bed onto the cold stone floor.

The tiny kitten had crossed the bed and stared down at the man, cocking its head to the side, as though pondering the strange ways of humans. Then it returned to its previous occupation of chewing on the corners of Snape's pillow.

The potion master leapt to his feet, grasped the wretched animal, and literally threw it out into the hallway. "Get out, you mangy over-sized _rat_!"

Slamming the door behind him, Snape stormed around his room, preparing for the day.

The day was agonizing enough to momentarily forget about the animal. Three Hufflepuffs melted their cauldrons, spilling Swelling Potion all over the floor. Only Snape's quick barks of orders kept the class from dissolving into panic. That didn't mean that Hufflepuff wasn't 50 points under its morning quota by lunch. Then Snape had to attend the weekly staff meeting, have a discussion with the Slytherin Prefects about not accepting bribes from other students to let them out after curfew (Snape scolded them until they flinched, but he rather admired their economic savvy—he would have to describe them as "enterprising" on their recommendation letters), and then grade a stack of abysmal potion essays. All a day in the life of Severus Snape, unfulfilled Potions Master in Hogwarts School of Increasingly Stupid Wizardry.

In fact, it wasn't until Snape returned to his room after dinner that he contemplated the kitten question. How on earth did the creature enter his rooms? He happened to know his wards included animals (Aurora Sinistra's incident with Mrs. Norris forced Snape to add to his defenses). And it simply wasn't possible for Dumbledore to have taken down his wards, dropped off the kitten, and replaced them without Snape sensing a thing.

Snape strode into his room and sank down in his armchair by the fire. Ah, a little bit of heaven in his purgatory of a life. Now if he could only determine how—

There was a muffled "mew" from Snape's side.

Leaping to his feet, he saw, to his fury, the same kitten now taking residence in his, _his_, favorite chair. The kitten, he noticed, had also kindly decorated his floor with the white stuffing from the shredded chair's arm.

To give Snape credit, he did not blast the kitten on the spot. While he would verbally flay almost anyone who he deemed to be an antagonist (so—everyone) and would never hesitate to strike a hostile enemy, Snape was not a violent man. He did not relish bloodshed or pain, as his fellow Death Eaters did. He found silky insinuations and subtle threats did far more than threat of death. So, instead of drawing his wand, he observed it carefully, while slowing down his breathing to manageable, less hex-likely levels.

The animal, rolling on its back while chewing a piece of its fluffy prize, was a small white kitten, only about the size of Snape's whole hand. Its pristine white fur was fluffy, almost as though the cat itself were made out of dandelion puffs. Someone had tied a blue bow around its neck. The picture was completed with the bright blue eyes, pink nose and pink feet. It was undoubtedly the most adorable kitten Snape had ever seen.

He gagged. How positively revolting.

The kitten grew bored with the stuffing and started batting its tail playfully, looking up at Snape with large, innocent eyes. It curled up on its side, as though pleading with him to pet it. He snorted. Did the little beast honestly _like_ him? Snape drew himself up to his full, intimidating height, looking down at the cat as though it were a terrified first year in his potion's class. He gave the creature his most intimidating stare.

"Mew," it said, cheerfully.

"You're appalling," Snape snarled, "I'm not going to pet you."

"Mew," it replied, still looking up at Snape lovingly.

"I hope you fall into the lake and dirty your perfect fur."

"Mew." Snape was further annoyed by the kitten's tone—affectionate and damnably close to _indulgent_.

"I hope you will be eventually consumed by the Acromantulas!"

"Mew." The kitten batted playfully at his robes. Snape inhaled sharply and took a step back.

"I hope—I hope you get bloody fleas!"

"Fleas, Master-Professor Snape?"

Snape whirled around to see a house elf looking at him inquisitively. He was mortified to have been found arguing—and losing to—a kitten but refused to show it. He tightened his jaw menacingly.

"Why does the Master-Professor want the pretty kitty to have fleas?" the house elf asked.

"That is Master-Professor's business, Patsy," Snape ground out, staring down at the elf, "If I had known that allowing you into my rooms would have entailed house-elf inquisitions, I would not have permitted it!" Snape's wards initially kept everyone—including house-elves—from entering his rooms. However, after a herd of house elves were found punishing themselves outside of his door, both for upsetting Master-Professor Snape's wards and for being unable to clean the Master-Professor's quarters, despite the wards, Snape finally conceded to allowing one elf, Patsy, access to clean his rooms. When accused of being a bit paranoid by the fellow staff ("Does he expect the house elves to hide jinxes in the sheets, I wonder?" McGonagall asked Flitwick in a tone of voice that purposely carried throughout the staff room), Snape shrugged. House elves were magical creatures in their own right and should be respected. He'd seen the Malfoy house elves performing discreet Cheering Charms on Lucius Malfoy when he was in bad form enough times to respect their magic and to be as suspicious of them as he was of wizards and witches.

However, house elves were house elves. She reacted predictably to Snape's remark. Patsy gasped. "Patsy a bad elf—a bad, bad elf!" She looked around the room and found a book from the shelf and started beating herself with it.

"NO!" Snape exclaimed, tugging the book from her hands, "That's a bloody first edition, are you mad—"

That only made Patsy wail louder. In lieu of any other torture device, Patsy crawled on the floor and started giving herself rug burns. Snape growled in the back of his throat and pulled the house elf to her feet.

"I was being sarcastic, Patsy. Do you know what that means?"

The elf only looked at him with wide, confused eyes.

"Never mind." Suddenly, he remembered the kitten. It was still on his seat, looking at him with unblinking devotion. He grimaced in disgust. "But you can redeem yourself, Patsy."

The house elf nearly fell over herself in delight.

"Remove that animal from these rooms," Snape said, "To the farthest corner of the castle."

The house elf looked very carefully at Snape. "Take kitten from Master-Professor Snape's rooms?"

"Yes—then return here for your cleaning. And bring a pot of strong tea while you're at it."

A moment later, the elf and the kitten were gone. Snape was delighted that the kitten hadn't even managed a full "mew" before it was taken.

Snape spent the rest of the evening gloating over his triumph, reading in his favorite, newly repaired armchair. He went to bed confidently, smirking in the dark. No purring, no glowing eyes, and no bloody kitten.

The first thing Snape realized the next morning was that his pillow was vibrating.

When he sat up quickly, he also realized that the kitten had been playing with his hair.

Cursing fluently, he stared down at the kitten sitting on his pillow, with little clumps of long, black hair in her paws, with a mixture of fury and shock. Fury quickly won over.

"You—you—_demon_!" Snape shouted. "How are you doing this?"

Said demon only peered up at him with that same curiously loving expression.

"Mew?" it replied.

Snape raged and screamed as he went through his daily absolutions. The demon (for Snape was growing more convinced by the minute it was a demon, what else could explain the infernal creature?) sat on Snape's arm chair, watching him with a bemused expression.

A moment before leaving for breakfast, Snape put his hands on either side of the arm rests and leaned in closely to the kitten. Snape's face was a portrait of rage, lividly white, his dark eyes bulging slightly, his teeth bared. The creature didn't even take a step back.

"I will not be outsmarted by a bloody kitten," he said softly, menacingly. "I don't know how you enter these rooms, but you will not be returning to them once I discover how you do it. I do not need a friend. I do not need a familiar. And I do not need a sodding _white fluffy kitten_. Do you understand that, demon? This is war—and _I'm—going—to—win_."

The demon had stared dotingly up at him the entire time. Snape leaned his nose in just a bit closer—when he felt a rough, warm tongue lick his large nose.

Surprised, Snape took two steps back away from the chair—backing into the couch and managing to fall backwards with it as it tipped over, his long legs comically sticking in the air out of his black robes.

The demon kitten sat calmly on Snape's chair, observing the disaster of which it was the clear epicenter. It tipped its head curiously to the side.

"Mew?"

((Hope you enjoyed it! This is a much less dark piece, or at least doesn't skirt the dark as much as the last chapter of the saga of how-Snape's-life-is-dreadful. The inspiration of this story actually came from a discussion with my friend about what I thought of "fluffy" fanfiction. I'm not a very fluffy person, so I defined my version of fluff as Snape being stuck in a room with a fluffy bunny and, while verbally hating it, secretly liking it. The idea (and mental image of Snape confronting a bunny) amused me so much that I started thinking...and here we are.

Also, although I believe I made this clear in the story, Snape is not a SPEW advocate. He doesn't care that house elves are enslaved, but, unlike most wizards, like Voldemort, does not dismiss house elves as being safe creatures. This shows his obsessively suspicious nature, but also his natural cunning as well, I think.

I also promise, though, that no house elves, kittens, or Potions Masters were seriously hurt in the creation of this story.

Also, an imaginary cookie to the person who finds the shameless Monty Python reference.))


	8. The Intruder Part Two

((A month later, and I finally put part two up on line. Really no excuse for this except for finishing exams, traveling, and getting back into the country. So this time I have a bit of an excuse, but a month is rather excessive, so apologies.

Now for more kitten antics and general Snape childishness.))

The Intruder Part Two

After returning from classes, Snape entered his rooms and glared at the sleeping creature in his chair, unhappy but unsurprised it was still there.

Although, he mused, perhaps it was for the best it was asleep. If this was a magical creature (which Snape had no doubts it was, how else could the demon be reappearing in his heavily protected sanctuary?), it probably would not appreciate being tested for magic. Snape slowly drew his wand and started casting a series of silent, furious spells over the creature. It yawned in its sleep but gave no indication it was aware of the light show going on above it.

Snape sat on the couch, staring at his taken chair resentfully. Not only was he without a chair (_his _chair_, his!)_ but he was without any idea of how to proceed. According to his spells, the kitten was exactly that—a kitten. It did not show any magical properties. It had not been charmed, hexed, or cursed in any way that would explain its ability to reappear in his rooms. If it wasn't for his undisturbed wards, Snape would have assumed that the creature was perfectly ordinary.

Yet the demon was lounging on his favorite chair, despite all his efforts on the contrary.

What else could he do? Removing the creature did not seem to make much of a difference. Should he ask one of his colleagues to investigate the strange animal? Snape sneered at the thought. Let everyone know that Severus Snape, brilliant Potions Master, Dark Arts expert—former _Death Eater_ for heaven's sake—was bested by an impossibly adorable _kitten_ with no magical ability? Minerva McGonagall would be cackling for months—_years_—about it. No, Snape had his dignity to maintain. He would deal with the insufferable creature on his own.

Eventually, Snape growled in the back of his throat, picked up the animal by the scruff of its neck and dropped it on the floor. He sat down in his chair by the fire and felt perversely proud of himself. The kitten merely sat by the side of the chair, looking up at him and purring maddeningly. He summoned a book from the shelf and pretended he couldn't hear it or see it. If he couldn't force the creature out, he would freeze it out by ignoring it.

Several hours later, Snape's head snapped up from his light doze, his book still in his hands, and realized that he had a lapful of purring kitten. Not fully awake, Snape reached his hand out and brushed against the soft fur. The kitten rubbed its face against his hand and—ugh, no!

Disgusted with the demon and, more so, himself, he pushed the creature out of his lap. The kitten did not give him one look of reproach for having been dropped on the floor yet again but only looked up at him plaintively.

"Spare me your histrionics," he snapped, "I told you I don't—"

He was staring at his lap in horror.

Snape always wore black robes. Immaculately black robes, if such a thing could exist. A black so dark that sometimes Snape fancied it was the color of the shadow.

Unfortunately, the color of shadows did not go well with white kitten hair.

"You _shed_ on me," Snape said, looking at the kitten as though it had done him some great injury.

The demon animal had meanwhile occupied itself by pulling a piece of string from the bottom of Snape's robes and tangling itself in it.

Snape stormed out of his rooms, leaving a trail of black string behind him.

Wednesday morning, Snape awoke to a tiny cat paw on his eye and a soft vibration on his skull. Thrusting the creature off, he returned to ignoring the demon. The kitten responded in following him around the rooms, purring with his every step. When he returned that afternoon, the kitten ("Hell cat is more like it," Snape muttered to himself), warmly greeted him, following after him as though he had never left. While Snape found this behavior to be both fawning and ridiculous, he did admit, while never out loud, that being greeted, even by the infernal feline was…bizarrely gratifying. Not necessary, absolutely not, but…a novelty.

After dinner, Snape returned to his rooms to find something quite unusual. The demon was standing next to a large, dead rat.

"Get away from that," he snapped at the kitten, "You don't know what kind of germs that thing could be carrying."

The hell cat only looked up at him with wide-eyed innocence. "Mew."

"Suit yourself," Snape replied, bending over the creature, while summoning a stirring rod from his laboratory. While Hogwarts was an enchanted castle, it was still a stone castle, which was subject to the unfortunate house hold pests. Rats, unfortunately, happened to be the main one, especially in the Hogwarts dungeons. Still, why did the rat die here, of all places, Mrs. Norris usually—

Slowly, Snape looked at the kitten. He poked the rat with his stirring rod and examined it. He looked back at the creature, which was just—just—larger than the dead rat.

Surely not, Snape thought, looking at the tiny creature which was batting its own tail.

"Did you do this, demon?" he asked carefully.

Its bright blue eyes stared up at him, all innocence. "Mew?"

Snape stared at the creature for a few moments longer. Finally, he vanished the rat and sat in his arm chair all evening. This time, when the kitten crawled onto his lap, Snape did not touch it, but he did not think it wise to push it off either.

The next morning, Snape woke up to find the kitten lying spread eagled on his chest, its nose touching his chin.

He also discovered that sometime in the night the hell-spawn cat had decided to use his discarded cloak as a litter box.

The brief camaraderie that had existed last evening swiftly ended. The screaming fit that came from the Potion's Master included some disparaging remarks on the kitten's questionable parentage, its disgusting personal hygiene habits, and its status as an agent to the satanic realm (strangely enough, Snape was _not_ referring to Dumbledore in this last bit).

Snape whirled on his heel to look at his tormenter

Said tormenter continued to lick itself without the least bit of concern.

Snape's Thursday did not improve. He had first year Potions class with Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws (which was only moderately better than the Gryffindor and Slytherin first year class—at least in this class Snape could focus on actually attempting to _teach_ the little beasts to not accidentally blow something up, rather than scout out the attempts of both Gryffindor and Slytherin students to _intentionally_ try to blow up things on one another). Only one Hufflepuff seemed close to tears at the end of his class, a rather disappointing number considering he had had three of them close to sniveling last week. He then avoided his chambers and the demon within by vindictively (for there was no other way to describe how he went forth with his work, liberally scoring parchments with red ink) checking essays in his office.

However, the monotony of his life was interrupted at dinner when Argus Filch entered with Mrs. Norris. The latter looked as though she had been in a fight—possibly with a hoard of pixies—and come out, for the first time in anyone's memory, the loser. Mrs. Norris, likely shocked herself by her defeat, appeared to be so stunned as to not even mind her injuries. Filch muttered and growled over his dinner as Dumbledore tried to placate him (Snape always told Dumbledore that Filch would probably be best soothed with talk of bloody vengeance and torture over calm pacification and lemon drops but, as usual, Dumbledore ignored him).

"It wasn't Peeves who did this?" the Headmaster gently asked. Filch's war against Peeves was as viciously deep-rooted and as entirely hopeless as the Chudley Cannons "rivalry" against the regularly victorious Ballycastle Bats.

"Would love to say so," Filch muttered, "But—no. It looked like another animal did it."

McGonagall gasped. She wasn't the only one. An animal loose in Hogwarts more dangerous than Mrs. Norris? "Should I warn the Prefects?"

"Did it look…dangerous, Argus?" Dumbledore asked.

Filch snorted. "I couldn't see it well. But it looked tiny—smaller than Mrs. Norris. In fact—I'd say it was nothing more than a kitten—a small, white kitten."

Only years of training to never show surprise in front of either of his masters kept Snape from dropping his fork.

When Snape returned, the demon sat quietly by the fire, with a smug expression. Snape watched it warily and, deciding discretion was indeed the better part of valor, tried to remain on the opposite side of the room whenever possible.

Friday morning, Snape woke to find the hell-spawn-in-the-disguise-of-a-kitten draped, strangely enough, over his ankle. At least, Snape thought, it was Friday, the most blessed day of the week, when he could pretend his hormone-driven, idiotic charges did not exist for two whole days. Then he could spend the much needed time trying to rid himself of the creature infesting his rooms.

After dinner, Snape, with rather more glee than one would consider normal, began his rounds around the school, looking for misbehaving students. He took great pride in noting that Fridays always had the biggest loss of points out of any day of the week. That his rounds always coincided on this day, he told an outraged McGonagall one Saturday after Gryffindor had lost a staggering 80 points in one night, was a mere chance of fate. After all, it was not his fault that Gryffindors had an innate habit of stupidity.

Just as his rounds were reaching a satisfactory close (50 points from Gryffindor, 30 points from Hufflepuff, 15 from Ravenclaw, and 10 from Slytherin, although Snape planned on finding some reason to give back five of those points by Monday, just to irk McGonagall), Snape rounded the corner near his dungeon classroom. A second later, Snape heard a scream. Lightning quick, he whipped out his wand, leaned against the wall, peered carefully around the corner, ready to rush the defense—

A student ran out of his storage cupboard, blindly reaching around her. As it was obvious that she had been attempting to take something from the cupboard, Snape instantly started cataloguing what could cause temporary blindness, the antidote, how long it would take him to rush her to the Hospital Wing—

When he realized that something of a non-potion variety was causing her inability to see.

A white, fluffy something.

The girl's accomplice ran to assist her. Before the other student could pull the demon off, it took the initiative and hoped off itself. The little monster gave the two a look of disdain and walked back to the cupboard. Its intent couldn't be clearer—go near the cupboard and enjoy my wrath. Snape wondered how a tiny, fluffy face with blue eyes could convey this, but there was no doubt that it did.

The girl was panting, grasping on her friend's shoulder.

"Was that thing waiting for you?" the second girl asked, "In the cupboard?"

"Yes," she said, "I was just reaching for the bubotuber pus—when it jumped on me. Like it _knew_ I was going to be there."

"We were talking about making the Beautification Potion just outside of class yesterday," her friend replied, uneasily, watching as the tiny demon flicked its tail lazily, "Do you think it…"

"I don't know, but let's get out of here before Snape finds us. Leave him to find the monster down here."

Said monster—the tiny kitten that could have fit inside Snape's cloak pocket—hissed. The girls ran as though a hydra were on their tails.

Snape was so bemused by the incident he didn't even have the desire to take points. Instead, he slowly walked into the classroom. The kitten mewed in welcome, seeming for the entire world to be the kindest, gentlest, cutest kitten in the wizarding world.

All in the face of ample evidence in the contrary.

"What are you?" Snape asked quietly, as the kitten purred around his legs, "And where did you come from?"

"From Patsy, Master-Professor Snape."

Snape turned to see Patsy the house-elf standing nervously nearby.

"Patsy?" Snape asked, incredulously, "_You've_ brought this—this—"

"Kitten," Patsy replied, helpfully, "Yes, Patsy brings kitten to Master-Professor Snape. Master-Professor Snape is so lonely in the dungeons." Snape snorted here, but the elf either didn't hear it or chose not to acknowledge it. "And Netty found the kitten all alone in Hogsmeade when Netty went for Hogwarts business. And Patsy decides that Master-Professor Snape should have a friend."

"You've been bringing it back into my rooms," Snape asked, "When I left? Even when I told you expressly to take the kitten out of my rooms?"

The elf quailed for a moment before, shockingly, standing up straight and looking at him with, for a house-elf, could pass as determined. For anyone else, it would probably be described as less passive.

"Master-Professor Snape asked Patsy to take the kitten _out_. But Master-Professor Snape did _not_ say Patsy could not bring kitten _back_."

Snape opened his mouth before conceding, inwardly, that the house elf's logic was infallible. "The kitten…is it a kneazle?"

"The kitten is a girl kitten," Patsy informed him, "And the kitten is a half-kneazle. The kitten is very smart—a good familiar for Master-Professor Snape!"

The demon was still gambling about his feet. It—_she_—purred contentedly, seeming to be in utter bliss to be near him.

He didn't want a familiar. He didn't want the hassle an animal would bring into his life. All the stress the creature had caused this week! Disturbing his sleep! Ripping up his chair! Leaving rats in the room—

Catching students stealing from his store rooms. Scaring the wits out of Mrs. Norris and, by association, the staff.

A regular hell-cat walking about in kitten form.

In fact, Snape mused, the kitten seemed to—dare he say it—_capitalize_ on its cuteness. Didn't even he, Severus Snape, one of the most cautious men on the face of the planet, fall into the wildly incorrect assumption that the kitten was all sweetness and goodness just by looking at its outward appearance and behavior?

In fact, her ability to hide her true nature behind a sweet façade was positively..._Slytherin_.

Snape was looking at the kitten with a begrudgingly approving air. The kitten was returning his regard, as though she knew that this moment was an important test.

"I'm assuming you've been putting allergy potion in my tea in the morning," Snape said to the house elf, without looking away from the kitten.

"Patsy has been, Master-Professor Snape. Patsy knows allergy potion is tasteless. So it won't make Master-Professor Snape's tea taste bad."

And so he wouldn't notice it in the tea, Snape added silently. And McGonagall scoffed at his suspicions of house elves. If only she knew.

"I suppose," Snape grudgingly said, "That the beast can stay then."

The house elf looked like she would cry in glee.

"Under one condition," Snape added severely.

He raised his wand and cast a spell. He admired his handiwork.

"If the creature is going to stay, it—_she_—might as well look like I would own her."

The kitten looked at her paw in confusion for a moment. After all, it's not particularly common, even for potentially demonically inspired kittens, to change from white fur to black fur. Then she licked it, in acceptance.

"Very well," he said to the kitten, picking her up, "Shall we finish rounds then?"

The kitten purred in agreement, her innocent eyes full of wicked intent.

"What is Master-Professor Snape going to name the kitten?" Patsy asked.

Snape paused. There was only one name that was really appropriate.

"Demon," he said crisply, "Let us away."

And so the potion's master and kitten swept away, an unbreakable bond forged from hatred of Mrs. Norris, delight in tormenting students, and Slytherin subtlety. Their life together in Snape's quarters was one of—mercifully—nearly silent companionship and great harmony.

Well.

At least until Snape found the hairball Demon coughed up in his favorite pair of boots.

((And so ends the kitten saga. I imagine Snape's favorite feline (only feline, I suppose) will be making a reappearance eventually. General trivia--Beautification Potion is an actual potion according to HP Lexicon, but bubotuber pus is not a recorded agreement. One of the uses of bubotuber pus is clearing up acne, which I thought would make sense in a potion for beautifying. See all the work I do for your reading pleasure? Expect a fairly long pause on this story...I'm working on a serious one shot right now. And it's Driving. Me. Crazy. Anyway, hope you like this one!))


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